


The Gift of a Dance

by i_penna



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: #an intimate PotO Moment, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 21:31:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18170117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_penna/pseuds/i_penna
Summary: Erik and Christine share a dance and create a new memory.





	The Gift of a Dance

The Gift of a Dance

Nearing the end of their trek home, Erik dances down the final set of stairs, moving to music only he can hear. One hand gracefully waving above his head. Narrow hips swaying in syncopated rhythm with his feet – tap, tap, tap – three steps forward, tap, tap, tap - three steps back – shuffle, side step, shuffle side step. “Bum, bum, bum – hah!” The light from his lantern bobs and weaves with his movements creating fragmented shadows on the walls of the underground passage.

“What is that music you hear in that amazing mind of yours? From your movements, I suspect it is not an aria.” Christine’s own steps are hesitant, wishing to become neither obstacle nor victim, if he loses his footing.

Reaching ground level, he turns to her deep sigh and titter of relief. Taking her lantern, he puts both on the bottom step. Slapping the rhythm on his knees so she, too, can hear the timing. Arms outstretched, his shoulder shimmy invites her to join him. “Definitely not an aria. Dance, my lady?”

How can she resist? “Now that we are finished with stairs, yes,” she says, mimicking his gestures. “Today’s rehearsal certainly energized you. Where did you learn these steps?”

“As expected, your shoulder movement is excellent,” he says, waggling his eyebrows as he leers at her breasts.

Christine giggles, swatting at him. “Stop that, you silly man.”

“Russian folk dances I attempted to learn when traveling in the Asias.” Wrapping an arm around her waist, he walks her in a half-circle – then, pivots, reversing their direction.

“I like seeing you happy – enjoying the time you spend around people.” As her steps become more assured, she attempts a few skips when the direction changes.

“Excellent – you know this dance – the polka?” Encouraged by her inclusion, the simple walk becomes a series of capering movements.

“I learned the polska when I was a child. Not exactly the same, but similar.”

Erik picks up the tempo – Christine easily keeping up, her feet tripping easily over the flat stone.

“As for my enjoyment in spending time around people, that would be stretching the truth somewhat. The music – the performances are enjoyable.”

“I disagree – it is more.”

Stopping the dance to catch his breath, his lips purse and brow wrinkles. “Why does that matter?”

“Our baby will have a happy pappa,” she says collapsing against him, her own breath shortened.

“You are all right?” he asks, wrapping her in his arms, swaying back and forth.

“Yes, just a tad winded – I believe that comes with carrying a baby.“

“You and our child are all I need to be happy.” Pressing a hand against her belly, he bends to kiss her.

Allowing only a peck, she resumes her argument. “That you have more is good, though, my husband – for me, as well.”

For a moment, they survey their surroundings – the silent darkness – far below the area where the daily work is performed. Any efforts to avoid duties, or indulge in private rendezvous, finds the lower levels absent of interest to the opera house personnel. This place still holds fearful memories for some – the Phantom alive in their dreams even now.

“It never occurred to me that all of this was here. On that first night with you, trusting, as you led me down these very steps. Our dance was quite different.”

“So many lonely journeys down these stairs – too many to count, not knowing how long I would have to live in solitude, out of the light.” Golden eyes meet aquarmarine, he says, “I am so very sorry I hurt you. Frightened you.”

“That is the past – it has been the past for some time now.” Brushing the back of her fingers against his cheek, she says, “You are becoming melancholy and that is not what I wished when I engaged in this conversation.”

“Old habits – self-pity is so unattractive, is it not?” He risks a sheepish smile. “Shall we dance a bit more – something less taxing?” Taking her into his arms as he observed during the balls he dared not attend.

“Ooo.” Trembling, she pulls back, pressing her fingers to her belly, a chortle escaping her lips. With bright eyes she looks up at him. “I think not – I believe our daughter doing her own dance inside me and I am not certain I can keep up with both of you.”

“The quickening?” Flirtation becomes awe. “Show me.”

Placing his hand where she felt the flutters, she asks, “Can you feel her?”

At first he shakes his head. Adjusting his fingers, he nods – lips spread in a smile – bated breath released with a chuff.  Pressing his knuckles to his mouth, the smile fades, eyes looking above and around – everywhere and nowhere. “I must take this off,” he says, removing his mask, handing it to her. Turning, he steps away, covering his face with both hands, body wracked with uncontrollable shaking, he falls to his knees. The sound of his sobs echo across the still water of the lake.

“Erik. What is it?” Christine stoops down next to him, embracing him, cradling his head to her breast.

“This is real?”

“Yes. You were still in doubt?”

He nods. “Until this moment, I suppose I was still fearful that it would all disappear like a dream.”

Holding his hand to her again, she laughs. “My darling man, I assure you, this little one is not a dream.”

“A dancer, do you suppose?

“We shall know better with her first cries – perhaps both.”


End file.
